


Hope

by BlueSteelFairy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief, Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 20:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18818473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSteelFairy/pseuds/BlueSteelFairy
Summary: [Speculated ending based on theories and leaks. Full of spoilers. You've been warned.]An epilogue for Daario Naharis, left behind in Meereen, when he receives word of what transpired across the narrow sea.





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> [Speculated ending based on theories and leaks. Full of spoilers. You've been warned.]
> 
> So hi everyone. We're a week from the end of the show. Between personal theories and someone showing me the leak cheat sheet, I have a pretty good idea about what's going to happen next week to at least one character. This would definitely be a big fat spoiler. So, if you still want to read, know you've been warned there will be spoilers for Season 6, 7, and 8 of the Fantasy Epic show Game of Thrones.

     Daario Naharis had, for the most part, gotten used to be in charge of Meereen. But he’d never stopped hoping she’d come back. Daenerys Targaryean was the love of his life. He’d been with other women, killed many men, and admired many beauties in the world. But love? She’d been the first he’d truly loved. At the beginning, she’d been stunning to behold: purple eyes, silver hair, generally beautiful, and flanked by three dragons. He’d been fond of them enough-if reasonably intimidated. (He was a fool, at times, but not an idiot). He’d watched Daenerys conquer the free cities in awe of her drive. He’d helped her figure out some of the odd cultural quirks. And eventually, she’d entreated him to join her bed.  
  


     He wasn’t sure if he’d already been in love with her before that-it was certain it had taken his mind to catch up with his heart. He knew the exact moment he realized the difference: not in the fighting pits, because he could still fight for her there, but at Vaes Dothrak. Jorah had known about Daenerys’s abilities, but he hadn’t. All he’d known was they’d barred all the exits, the building was burning, and she was still inside. By the time she emerged from the flames (terrifying and beautiful), he’d realized his heart beat for Daenerys.

And how it had ached when she gave him orders to stay in Meereen. He couldn’t disregard everything-they needed to leave a fighting force, or all her work would be undone. He hated the idea of being apart from her so long-but he’d never considered that the last time he’d see her would be sailing away that day. He’d believed with all of his being that Daenerys would reclaim her family’s throne, and then, maybe, she’d called on him again. Maybe she’d send Grey Worm and Missandei to run the city after all was said and done. Or, perhaps, she’d simply decide Westeros was a silly place, and return to Meereen-and him.

So when the message came from the West, Daario’s face had been radiant with a massive smile. He hadn’t had a chance to read it-he’d assumed Tyrion sent good tidings, despite how thick the scroll was. He’d even started to give orders to arrange a celebration in the city.  
  


      Orders he’d tearfully called off that evening. He’d sat down for dinner at a table in his private quarters-previously hers, and briefly theirs-and snatched up the scroll to read about Daenerys’s victory. He mused, a goblet of wine in one hand, that perhaps she would at least visit. If she had to marry a Westerosi Lord, he honestly hoped that Jorah had somehow escaped the Greyscale. They hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but he felt for the poor old chap, and they’d both been devoted to their queen. When he realized the first words were “I regret to inform you things went terribly wrong”, Daario sat the goblet back down. His eyes widened, and as he read, his appetite was forgotten, dinner untouched.  
  


      He read as Tyrion recounted their arrival in the West, and Daenerys settling in Dragonstone. How they’d made several alliances-that were, unfortunately short lived. The Greyjoy woman had never gotten to know their queen as well as she might have liked. Daenerys won several keeps, and her forces were nothing the Lannister armies were prepared for. However it had turned out there was something they’d been completely unaware of: the ‘Others’ to the North with their ability to raise the dead. If they swarmed across Westeros, there would be nothing for Daenerys to reclaim. How the once bastard Jon Snow had become a ‘dashing, handsome King of the North’, asking only for Dragon Glass to fight the White Walkers.  
  


     It wasn’t Tyrion’s proclamation that Jon and Daenerys had become romantic that unnerved him (though he mused that Jorah was perpetually unlucky in love). The first thing that shook him was about what happened North of “The Wall.” Viserion, the last Daario had seen a magnificent and powerful dragon, had been brought down. Worse, he hadn’t stayed down-their enemy had the ability to restore motion to the dead, under his command. The Battle in the North had been costly-not simply for the number of Unsullied and Dothraki lost, but because Ser Jorah Mormont had been mortally wounded protecting Daenerys.

That was about when Daario realized this story couldn’t have a happy ending. Oh, he’d loved Daenerys’s spirit, how fiery she could get, but Jorah had always been able to temper that flame. He’d have advised against her next move-leaving immediately after the conflict to return South to dethrone Tyrion’s sister. A move, Daario read, cost them dearly. A number of ships and soldiers lost was insignificant compared to Rhaegal- another of her children-and being forced to watch Missandei die while they were powerless to stop it.  
  


     Tyrion wrote, off hand, that there were other factors in play that may have set off one of the less fortunate Targaryean family legacies. Daenerys had lost a child and two of her closest friends in days of each other- if that long. She’d been forced to fight the reanimated body of another of her children. and Tyrion pointed out her life hadn’t been without trial and tribulation before that. Before his eyes, Tyrion claimed, Daenerys began to unravel. That he’d known she was gone during the final battle-the Battle of King’s Landing because of the way she’d behaved, the way she’d fought, it had all contradicted everything he’d previously known of her.

  
     Everything Daario himself had known of her-how hard she’d fought to make sure the innocents were no harmed in her battles against the masters. How angry she’d been when they found the crucified slaves. Why she had ever so reluctantly chained two of her children.  
  


     By the time he got to the end of Tyrion’s letter, explaining Daenerys’s final fate, the parchment was covered in tear stain that smeared ink here and there. His head was ducked as he shook, and the letter fell from his hands. His voice cracked, and he began to sob. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. His candles burned out, and darkness fell, and he was still crying with grief and regret.

Viserion. Jorah. Rhaegal. Missandei. And Daenerys himself. Two dragons he’d been fond of, a man and woman he’d considered friends, and the woman he still loved regardless of her fate. In the darkness of the night, his sobs became howls of pain. Why hadn’t he done with them? Why had he allowed himself to be talked into staying behind? Could he have made a difference? Could he have saved even one of them-especially Daenerys? Or would he have simply died with the rest of them? In forcing him to stay, had Daenerys saved his life?  
  
     I’d have rather died there, with them, then be here, alone, knowing I’ll never see any of them again. That I’ll never see her again. He rose and tossed the chair aside as he shook with emotions he didn’t realize he was capable of. He’d never see her again. Never look into her lavender eyes while they giggled and lay together. He’d never hold her again and nuzzled into long silver locks. He’d never hear her laugh at something he said, never see her try not to smile about something he’d done. She was gone. And he hadn’t been there to defend her. Hadn’t been there to fight for her. To comfort her. He’d been half a world away, unaware how terribly wrong everything had gone.

  
     I can’t stay here. He’d moved into the quarters to feel close to her, to remember the good times he’d had with her there, to imagine future dalliances or encounters. Now all of those thoughts haunted him. Daario moved to the door, unsure where he’d go, only that he needed to walk. His own rag tag team of advisors probably would have asked after him, if he’d allowed them to see him. He’d been a simple sell sword once, and pit fighter before that. He was fast, and he could be quiet. He needed to go somewhere no one would hear when he started to scream. Or if they did hear, that they wouldn’t know what it meant. When he thought of a place, he half laughed, half cried. Of course. It seemed he couldn’t be rid of the ghosts no matter how hard he wanted to. At least they (mostly) weren’t of her.

 

* * *

  
  
      That was how Daario came to the catacombs, disappearing inside them. The door had needed to be opened, which made him laugh at the absurdity of it. The wall had caved in where two massive dragons had broken out, but he’d still needed to open the damn door to get in. He stepped down into the mostly darkness, save where moonlight lit the chambers through broken walls. Daario reached the bottom of the stairs and tensed; suddenly he could only remember watching Daenerys feed her children.

It was all too much. He screamed. He shouted, and kicked a rock away, and he screamed towards the sky.  
“Why?!” He didn’t expect an answer. Even if he did, would any answer be enough? He screamed again before collapsing in a heap, sobbing and shaking all over again. “Why am I alive when so many of my betters aren’t?”

  
     He honestly wasn’t sure if he’d passed out or not. Since he didn’t remember having a moment of ‘it must have been a bad dream’ he strongly suspected he spent the night alternating sobs, screams, and shaking on the ground. He was exhausted, and he hurt in a way he’d never believed he could. She hadn’t just been some woman to him, she hadn’t even been just a queen in his eyes. After he’d seen her emerge from the burning Temple of the Dosh Khaleen, he’d truly believed her a Goddess, untouchable, immortal, and he was truly blessed to know her, to love her. Daenerys had helped him do something good with his life. He wasn’t just a Captain among Sell Swords, not just a victory of the fighting pits. He’d been able to help her liberate countless souls so they could live free, free to make their own decisions, and choose their own fate. All except me. He’d wanted to be by her side. If he could never touch her again, that would have been fine. As long as he could see her, hear her, and know she lived, he’d have been alright. Tempted, but alright.  
  


      But there was no bargaining with the God of the Faceless Men. His toll had been taken, and Daario had been oblivious. Could I have made a difference? The thought continued to haunt him throughout the night, until the sun rose. Could he have comforted her through he losses? Could he have stopped even one loss? Or would he have been another loss to hang heavy on her heart?

His eyes were bleary and burned when sunlight began to shine through the broken wall of the catacomb. He knew he needed to get back. Now the free cities were her only real legacy. The only legacy of the real Daenerys Targaryean, the woman he loved. But he wouldn’t move. He couldn’t face a new day knowing she wasn’t out there in the world still.

“You weren’t made to sit on a chair in a palace. You’re a conqueror, Daenerys Stormborn.” Daario had said that once-because he’d seen her conquer, and struggle with ruling. He’d seen her unhappy trying to manage the minutia of being a Queen. But she excelled at the other. Now she would never do either again.  
  


     His hopes for her, to love her even if from afar, had been extinguished. And he couldn’t move. Perhaps I’ll waste away here. It wouldn’t be a particularly pleasant way to go, but it didn’t require him getting up, either. It didn’t require him doing anything. That might have been his fate without hope, had the light not drawn his attention to something odd.

The catacombs had been empty since the Battle for Meereen. Other then dragon excrement, rubble, and maybe some bones, there shouldn’t have been anything else in there but him. But the light fell on a splash of color-something purple in the dark of a corner. Violet. Like her eyes.

 

     Daario rose on legs he almost thought wouldn’t hold him. The night was catching up with his body, and now it ached like his heart. But he took the slow steps into the darkness, grabbing an old torch from a sconce to light. When he lowered it, he saw bits of fabric and wool hoarded in a pile. There was the source of the color-a oblong object, violet, with ridges. They almost look like scales. That thought immediately hurt as he recalled Viserion and Rhaegal’s fates. All the same, he found himself slowly picking the violet object up. It didn’t appear to be a precious stone, or a treasure of any kind. But it’s violet like her eyes. That prompted him to decide to bring it with him, and slowly, he returned to the pyramid and his duties.

 

* * *

 

 

    By that evening, he’d forgotten about the purple mystery item He’d arranged a day of mourning, a memorial to be held. Countless freed slaves would attend and speak of their Mhysa the next day at dusk. Daario had to attend, he was the de facto leader of Meereen now. Perhaps the Leader. He didn’t want to think about that. So, he’d gotten very drunk. And, drunkenly concluding that it would only continue to haunt and hurt him, he set the bed he and Daenerys had once shared on fire.

  
     He’d soaked the sheets and linens in wine, and dropped a candle before going to the balcony. At some point a servant or guard came running in, having smelled the smoke, but he’d sent them away. At some point he passed out there, curled into the balcony, the smell of the ocean filling his nostrils instead of the smoke that blew away on the wind.  
  


      When he woke, he’d realize that the burn hadn’t been as controlled as he thought, and he was lucky to be alive. And by the time he had that thought, he’d actually feel fortunate for it. Half the room was charred, though it appeared staying on the balcony was what had saved him-the flames had never gone that far, merely the bed, some tapestries that had been hanging beside it, and the dining table. If he’d passed out inside the main room, he’d have probably died in his sleep breathing in too much smoke.  
  


     What he awoke to was a sharp pain in his hand. Daario yelped, sitting up right and pulling up his arm to see what had happened.The side of his hand was bleeding, he realized. Did I break my wine pitcher? He wondered as he unceremoniously tried to run the blood off on his pants. It was as he noticed the wound looked more like punctures he realized he wasn’t alone.

  
      Slowly, he turned his attention to where his hand had been moments before, and if it weren’t for his hand, he’d have thought he’d gone mad with grief. But he had a real bite mark on his hand to confirm what he was looking at, even if he didn’t comprehend right away. It was perhaps the size of a large ferret, and partially coiled like a snake. It was mostly dark purple, except for the slightest highlights and underbelly of silver. It wasn’t until wings stretched that Daario realized what he was looking at.  
  
“No.”  
  


     He stared and stood before stumbling towards the table. The hatchling followed him like a duckling, trotting along as it’s tail flicked behind it. Daario kept one eye on the new life, still not willing to think the correct word, and reached onto the singed table. He found one he believed had been lamb, though it was now well done, and snatch it up to toss down. The hatchling pounced it, but he watched it struggle with getting chunks of meet off. That said, as long as it wasn’t biting him, he was willing to help.  
  


     He grabbed a knife and knelt, starting to cut chips of meat off the end opposite the small creature. It seemed to notice, and circled around, folding it’s wings to walk on and crawl like he’d once seen Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal do. Daario finally found himself able to think the word as the purple hatchling began to nibble and chew the smaller pieces of meat he’d carved off. Dragon. Where had it come from? Daenerys only had had three. None of them were purple. Violet. Like her eyes.  
  


     Daario peered over the top of the table, wide eyed as he took in the burnt remains of the bed. The cushions, linens, and mattress had shriveled up to ash and charcoal. But what remained of the violet oblong object sat beside the bed’s skeleton on the floor. It had cracked open.  
  


“No.” He repeated in astonishment and whirled around to look back at the hatchling. The new born dragon peeked up at him, having consumed most of the scraps, trilled, and climbed into his lap. There, it curled up, and proceeded to take a nap while Daario stared in shock. He still couldn’t quite comprehend it, but as his mind woke up, he began to put it together.  
  


     He’d spent the night before last in the catacombs. That was where two of the dragons had been kept for a while. It was really badly lit, but he’d found a violet oblong object. Then, he must have dropped it on the bed in his hurry to get ready for the day. After, he’d gotten drunk enough Tyrion would be proud, and decided to set the bed on fire. Now, the object had broken open, and there was a tiny dragon creeping around. The scraps and wool I found-it was a nest?! He held his aching head, the wine catching up as he tried to process the bigger thoughts. He’d found an egg. He’d found a dragon egg. And he’d accidentally set it on fore. And it had hatched. And then it bit him. I guess not all of her children were boys after all? He didn’t want to think about that too hard. Instead, he found the smallest real smile as he leaned down to softly stroke the curled creature’s neck.

“I think I’ll call you Hope.”


End file.
